She might not have magic anymore, but sometimes all you needed was brute strength.
33
Yiran
The cold night air woke Yiran up from the daze of the accident. He shivered and zipped his jacket, turning up the shearling collar for warmth. In the fog, the light from the streetlamps dimmed to a hazy rust orange. Everything felt surreal, like he was underwater. Dark and misty, the road seemed to stretch on and the distance to the body on the road felt longer than it should.
What if the person was dead?Then you’d be a murderer, dumbass.
Yiran swallowed, his throat suddenly parched. He would get kicked out of the Academy. He’d get kicked out of life. This wasn’t a minor traffic offense. His grandfather wouldn’t and couldn’t get him off a manslaughter charge, and Commissioner Senai was kind, not corrupt.Young, rich, bastard, no-good grandson of the Song family...The headlines practically wrote themselves. With the media circus that would surround his case, some district judge would want to make an example of him. They would try him as an adult. He would go to jail. And he would deserve it.
There.
The body was in front of him.
His heart sank. It was a boy no older than himself, someone with a full life ahead of him. A life Yiran had possibly cut short.
The boy’s dark hair fanned out on the tarmac, and one of his legs was bent at an angle that turned Yiran’s stomach. He was wearing a flimsy ivory shirt with billowing sleeves and loose pants. His feet were bare as if he’d woken from sleep and wandered onto this highway. There was no blood on his clothes or the ground.
Bending over, Yiran reached a shaky hand to the boy’s neck, fingers meeting skin as cold as ice.
A pulse.
Yiran reached into his pocket, only to remember he’d left his phone with Rui.
“Call an ambulance!” he shouted back at the car.
The fog was thicker now, and the headlights were diffused orbs like the eyes of a demon. He couldn’t see Rui or Zizi.
“Rui?” he shouted again.
There was no response.
Should he pick the boy up and carry him to the car? But moving him might worsen his injuries. He glanced back at the boy.
Goose bumps erupted on his arms. Was that lock of hair always across the boy’s cheek? Was the angle of his broken leg different?
Panic crawled up Yiran’s vertebrae and nestled in his head, its worm-like fingers wriggling in his brain. He was underwater again, pressure in his ears, in his head. Maybe it was delayed shock. Maybe this was all a dream, maybe—that sound, like the scratch of nails on a chalkboard—was it coming from the boy?
The panic worms in Yiran’s brain squealed and squirmed. Shakily, he pushed to his feet. He had to get back to the car.
Something cold wrapped itself around his ankle.
He looked down.
The boy’s eyes were open.
Yiran’s entire body screamed.
Next thing he knew he was flat on the ground, the wind knocked out of his lungs. He could smell it—that miasmic mix of flowers and nightmares. How had he missed it before? So much for his training. He didn’t have a weapon with him, not even a talisman. His body was gripped with fear, unable to move. He was nothing but a tasty snack for a Revenant.
The Revenant boy stood over him now, one leg still bent at a horrific angle. He wasn’t snarling like the wild monster at the Night Market or morphing into distorted shapes. The boy’s slender eyes sparkled with intelligence as he gazed through long lashes, and when his lips curled back,Yiran noticed that his front teeth were slightly crooked in an altogether too-human way.
He was beautiful.
“Where do you think you’re going, handsome?” the Revenant boy said.
“You can talk.”
